Moments
by AlwaysKatie7
Summary: A collection of snapshots from across the span of J.K. Rowling's timeline: Marauders, to within the series, to beyond! Chapter Five: "It's okay to hurt. You don't have to be strong all the time." Post-war Harry x Ginny
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** For any of you who were holding out hope that this was the start of my post-war Ron/Hermione aftermath story, I'm terribly sorry. I am working on it, but since I don't know quite when that will be up and this one has just been sitting in my documents, I decided I'd get this going in the meantime.

The idea behind "Moments" is just that it's going to be miscellaneous snapshots from across J.K. Rowling's timeline. This means that it could be something from the Marauders era, to within the course of the series, to next generation, and everything in between! So basically just a series of one shots that I was inspired to write but didn't want to post as stand alones. I will (in accordance to my own preference) keep everything roughly canon compliant, and canon pairings as always! Also, the story is tagged with Ron, Hermione, and Harry because those are the characters that I personally enjoy writing about most, and as such will probably appear in a lot of these...but expect many more characters, they're all fair game here.

As to this first moment, enjoy a casual Sunday with the Weasley/Potter clan! And please please _please_ leave me a review, or a favorite, or whatever, to let me know if you enjoy it!

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

* * *

"Don't eat all of that at once!" Hermione shouted after the kids as they tore through the kitchen into the sitting room, laden with bags of treats. They had just returned from Sunday brunch at The Burrow, only this week Charlie had been home as well, and had brought all of his nieces and nephews an overflowing bag of sweets each. Ron toppled out of the floo behind her, shaking his head with laughter as they watched little Lily bend down to pick up a fallen sugar quill, only to spill the rest of the contents of her bag out as well. The Potter kids had been left with them for the day, since Ginny was reporting a match across the country that afternoon, and Harry had decided to go meet her.

"Do you think Harry contacts Charlie ahead of time to conveniently plan _just_ which matches he should want to 'surprise Ginny' at?" said Hermione, turning to her husband.

"Wouldn't put it past him...git," Ron muttered, bending down to retrieve a flyaway acid pop from beneath the counter.

"You better go give that to Lily," Hermione warned, "or she'll think she got one less than everyone else again. You know they're counting in there."

Sure enough, when they rounded the corner into the sitting room, all five children were sat cross legged on the carpet, their individual stashes dumped out before them, sorting and counting out the contents of their bags. Ron dropped the pop into Lily's pile just as she exchanged one of her fudge flies for Hugo's peppermint toad.

"Yes!" Rose exclaimed excitedly, yanking a wrapper from the bottom of her pile as if it were a gold coin rather than a piece of candy, "A chocolate frog!"

Immediately, the others began rifling through their own treats for theirs. The chocolate frog was the glimmering apex of Honeydukes' sweets, not only because it was excellent chocolate, but also because of the surprise inside. As soon as James had begun his own card collection a few years back, the others had latched on immediately, and now all of them together were well on their way to collecting the full set. Each chocolate frog was like a prize.

James found his almost immediately, and without waiting for the others, tore the wrapper off, the contained card fluttering down onto the rest of his stash. "Just another Dumbledore," he groaned disappointedly, barely glancing at it before tossing it aside into the center of the little circle they'd formed, and taking a bite of his chocolate. Rose was close behind, ripping open her own frog and grabbing the card out neatly from within. She made a face and tossed her card on top of James'.

"I got Uncle Harry _again_. We must have about _fifty_ of those..."

"This one's Dad too," Albus groaned, adding it to the stack.

Hugo's face lit up as he opened his, "I got a new one!" Everyone's head popped up. "Oswald Beamish!" The grins turned to snorts.

"We already have him, Hue," said James gently, reaching over to clap him on the back regardless.

"No we don't!"

" _Yes_ we do," Rose shot back, "I found him three months ago."

"Oh," Hugo murmured defeatedly, adding it to the stack.

All four of them turned to Lily expectantly, the last to open her frog. She was staring at the card bemusedly. "I-I got _you_ , Uncle Ron!" She piped up, her voice raising in excitement.

"No way!" James yelped, grabbing it out of her hand and pulling it away before she could snatch it back, "This is just what we needed! Way to go, Lily!"

Rose was examining it over James' shoulder, "I never thought we'd _actually_ find it. I was beginning to think Dad had just forged the one he has framed in his office..."

Hermione cringed, staring at the pile of forgotten cards in the center of the children. Harry's card was as frequent as Dumbledore's nowadays, both now lying discarded together. All over the world, wizarding children were opening up their chocolate frogs to a card about Harry Potter. Meanwhile, Ron's was so under-printed that his own daughter was beginning to question its very existence. This would crush him. He had always considered making it onto a chocolate frog card his crowning achievement. She had rarely seen him happier than when he'd received his card in the post, along with a handwritten note from the head of the company. And now to find out that hardly anyone got to enjoy it…. Forcing herself to crack open her eyes, bracing herself for his devastation, she turned to him. He wasn't there. He had bounded over to where the kids had gathered round, peering down at his card in James' hand and looking...well, nothing short of _elated_.

"Can you _believe_ it, Hermione?" He said gleefully, looking up to meet her dumbfounded expression, "I'm a rare card! _Me_!"

She shook her head. Looking at him, she thought she even detected a tear grazing the corner of his eye. He would never fail to amaze her.

"Lemme see it!" Hugo was demanding, struggling to peer around James' outstretched arm. His cousin passed it over, albeit reluctantly.

"Make sure you don't bend it! It'll lose it's value and it'd take us ages to find another…." James yammered on. Hugo just rolled his eyes.

Ron had reappeared at her side, beaming. "So this is a good thing, then? You're not disappointed?" Hermione asked. She was so taken aback that she needed the confirmation.

" _Disappointed?_ Hermione, Albus said they'd been looking for mine for ages! _Ages_! I never thought I'd see the day…. Oh I can't _wait_ to let Harry know that his own son threw him aside without so much as a second glance. That's what he gets for disappearing on a candy day…hah!"

Hermione had to smile a little at the look of pure euphoria on her husband's face. "I'm sure he'll be devastated, dear…."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Really, I promise these won't all be about Ron and/or Hermione. It was romione ship week over on Tumblr, what can I say.

Speaking of Tumblr, if you ever want to chat, I recommend stopping by my blog! Warning, it's multi-fandom, and Taylor Swift heavy, but I will take prompts or discuss Harry Potter at any opportunity! ( .com)

So without further ado... ( **warnings:** pregnancy, discussion of potential complications during pregnancy)

* * *

"You bought me something?" Hermione asked, trying not to act as surprised as she felt. It wasn't that he never spontaneously gifted her anything…it just usually wasn't presented to her in a black plastic bag with two bright "C's", plastered on the front—the trademark wrappings of the Chudley Cannons' team gift shop. Oh dear, she hoped he hadn't misunderstood her love for the baggy Cannons shirt she wore to bed. She adored it because it was _his_ , not because of any real team spirit! What if he had decided he wanted it back and had gotten her her own to replace it? It wouldn't be nearly the same. In fact, she'd probably never wear it, and then he'd only be disappointed….

"Well…erm, not _exactly_ ," said Ron, looking immensely pleased with himself at his purchase, "It's for the baby."

 _Oh god,_ it was even worse! _The baby!_ She had sent him off to the game with Harry hoping it would be a bit of a _distraction_ from the baby, and now here he was with a gift for it! Oh no, _Harry_ — "He doesn't know does he?" She asked, trying to hold back her panic. Thankfully, he shook his head.

"Of course not, I wouldn't tell him without you! I picked it out when he went off to find the loo."

 _Thank god_. They themselves had only found out a bit over two weeks ago. She had been spending the day with Ginny, who had convinced her to take a bit of the potion. As soon as it had changed to purple, she had felt a lump rising in her throat. Frantically she had washed the potion down the sink. Then she had told Ginny it had stayed blue. Not pregnant. Except she was. Ron had been _thrilled,_ of course. She had known he would be, they had been trying for a while. The day after she told him, he got off work early and prepared an entire supper to be ready by the time she got home—her favorite, lasagna, with the bread from the market that she loved but usually bypassed because it was overpriced. They had had a little celebration, just the two of them. It had been marvelous, so long as she managed to forget the reason they were celebrating.

He had taken her to her Mungo's appointment, and held her hand as the healer confirmed what they already knew. After that, there had been so much talk about the baby that it made her head spin. Pregnancy books that she had bought when they had first started trying were suddenly pulled off the shelves, dusted off, and lying around their bedroom. Together, they'd marked the due date on their calendar by the fridge. A few days ago, when she'd woken up ill for the first time, Ron had missed his morning meeting to hold back her hair and rub her back in small circles as she knelt over the toilet. Those were big changes, and she did all right with them. When they'd babysat little James and Ron turned his nose up in disgust as they'd changed his diaper, she'd even made a joke that he'd better get used to it. She thought she was finally getting comfortable with the idea. But it was the small things, the ones that took her off guard, that clearly proved that theory wrong. Sometimes, something would remind her out of the blue, like the day Ron stormed home from work complaining about a coworker, and told her furiously that if their child was a boy they could never name him "David," or when she reached in the cabinet for a bottle of wine and had to stop herself, her hand dangling in the air for moments afterwards. Or now, when Ron appeared home from a quidditch game with a gift for a baby she liked to pretend she wasn't pregnant with….

"Well are you going to open it?" Ron said eagerly, staring down at her in expectation and looking practically giddy with excitement. Rather reluctantly, she took the bag from his hands and peered inside.

It was a jumper. A little baby jumper. And it was ghastly. The entire front was covered in an enlarged Chudley Cannons logo, and all the parts that weren't thus occupied were still a violent shade of the team's trademark orange. She had of course imagined what her and Ron's babies would look like, and she now mentally dressed them in the tiny sweater. With a head of a red hair and that jumper, they'd look completely ridiculous. Hell, even with her brown hair, they'd look completely ridiculous. She wasn't sure there were any possible features that wouldn't clash horribly with the rather shocking jumper. Yet the baby she pictured in her mind was snuggled up tightly in it regardless, her little hands peeking out from the folds of the fabric, and her tiny face scrunched up in the cutest little laugh she'd ever seen…. _Her and Ron's baby_. She wanted their child to have that jumper.

Ron was yammering away in the background, saying something about how he knew it was early but he couldn't resist. She stared at the garment in her hand, so wonderful in it's ugliness, and promptly burst into tears.

Ron's smile melted at once. "Hey, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't think it was _that_ bad, I can take it back…."

She shook her head, clutching it tighter and letting the sobs rack over her. She had to pull herself together, she didn't want Ron to worry. "I-I'm sorry," she managed to choke out, "Must just be p-pregnancy h-h-hormones…"

Ron's eyes had narrowed and she knew he didn't believe her. "I'll go get some water," he said quietly, shooting her one last concerned glance before disappearing. When he returned a few moments later with two glasses, she was still crying. Despite her best efforts, she didn't seem to be able to get the tears to stop. "Budge over," he whispered, climbing onto the bed beside her and pushing aside the forgotten book she'd been reading when he'd first arrived. She allowed him to scoot closer and pull her into his arms so that she could cry onto his shoulder, the way she had grown accustomed to. "So what's happened?" he said sincerely, stroking her hair and drawing her in.

Melting into his touch, she couldn't stop the words from escaping her mouth, her greatest fear, "It's only been a month, something could still go wrong." It came out so softly that she wasn't sure he had even heard her. There was a long pause. Then—

"This is about what they told you at Mungo's isn't it?"

He wasn't talking about this last time, when they had told her she was pregnant. She knew that much by his voice. And he was right. It was a trip from years ago, actually. A trip from right after the war. She had felt fine, and was sure that Fleur had patched her up well enough, but after about eight different people had insisted upon it, she had finally agreed to a check-up at Mungo's, to identity any residual effects of the Cruciatus. She hadn't expected anything, she'd been feeling fine, after all. As soon as the healer had started speaking in a voice that was sickeningly gentle, and far too kind, she had known it wouldn't be good. But it was worse than bad. Worse than awful, even. They had told her she might never have children. They had told her that, even if she did get pregnant, the chances were enormously large for a high-risk pregnancy and birth.

It had taken ages for Ron to get it out of her. She had cried for nearly two days straight on the floor of Ginny's room at the Burrow. It was early on in their relationship. It was before they'd gone to Australia to get her parents. It was before they'd even said "I love you." But she had known her future was with Ron. She had known that much for years, or at least hoped it, and in the recent days she'd grown certain it. But she was afraid of how he'd react. A small part of her had even feared he'd end it between them. He hadn't, of course. He'd held her then like he was holding her now. And he'd let her cry. And then he _had_ told her he loved her. No matter what, he had said.

So eventually they got married, and so did Harry and Ginny, and then James was born, and James was so _lovely_ , and so when Ron brought it up, late one night in those weeks after James, she'd said _of course_ she would love to have a baby. She was ready. Which was all true. But she hadn't thought it through, had she? Because here she was, pregnant, and desperate to have a family with the man she loved more than anything, and more than half-terrified that it would all fall to bits in the blink of an eye. _A great chance of high risk pregnancies._ The healer's words had been swimming out of her past and whirling around in her mind since she'd seen the purple potion. She had set herself up for more devastation, she was almost sure of it. It was only a matter of time.

Ron was still stroking her hair, and she was still crying. It was nice, in a way, because at least it was all out in the open. She had been rather sick of pretending to be thrilled. She wasn't thrilled. She was scared. "Nothing's going to go wrong," Ron said, with a lot more confidence than she would have been able to muster. "I think we've been through enough shit…I reckon there's a limit!" She sniffed. Then he was cupping her chin and raising her face gently to look into his. Even his eyes, she noticed, were a little watery, but he was hiding it well. "Hermione," he said very seriously, "Even if something were to happen, which it's _not_ , but if even if _were_ , we'd get through it. Just like we've gotten through everything else. You know that right?"

She couldn't quite work out a proper response, so she just hugged him tighter and hoped he understood. She did know. Suddenly, she became aware of the fact that she was still clutching unto the little Cannons jumper with one hand. Sniffling, she pulled away and faced him, wiping the tears out of her eyes. "I love the gift," she said, a bit shakily. "She's going to look great in it."

Ron's eyes went wide as saucers. "She? How do you know?"

"I just think so," Hermione whispered, reaching for his hand and squeezing it. The little baby girl she'd imagined wearing the jumper earlier made its way back into her mind. Only this time, she smiled at the thought. "I have a feeling."

Late into the night they sat there, her head resting on his shoulder long after her tears had dried, hands intertwined. Just the two of them, and their unborn little baby Weasley. Three. A perfect family. No matter what.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Kind of angsty and several days too late...here is my drabble for Harry's (and Jo's) birthday! I just re-read the Mirror of Erised chapter, and how bloody depressing is the implication that Harry doesn't know what his parents look like? This idea sprung from that. Anyway, happy birthday to two of my favs.

* * *

He doesn't realize he is ten until it is well past noon. Aunt Petunia has the afternoon news on in the kitchen, and the date flashes across the top of the television screen: 31st July. He returns to the sandwich he is fixing himself without a second thought. He has long since ceased paying attention to his birthdays.

It is a bit later, as he is sitting in his cupboard, that he wraps it around his mind. _Ten_. Double digits. He wishes it felt at least a _little_ different, being ten, but he can't say he feels any change from yesterday, when he was only nine. He wonders if it had felt differently for Dudley, if having a _real_ birthday was what made the difference. Did the event-ness of it all, the presents and the cake and the party, solidify something inside you? Make it seem real?

He himself had never had a cake. Once, when he was much younger, he had proclaimed to Aunt Petunia a week before his birthday that he would like a yellow cake with chocolate frosting, please. Dudley had gotten to choose _his_ cake, and Harry had very much been looking forward to his own turn ever since. But Aunt Petunia had narrowed her eyes at him and told him icily that she would not allow so much dessert in such a short span of time. She seemed to ignore the fact that she had been conceding to Dudley's near-daily demands for ice creams all week. But Harry got the message all the same: he wouldn't be getting a cake. Since then, he had settled for enjoying the sliver of cake his Aunt usually cut for him on Dudley's birthday as if it were his own. It wasn't quite the same, but it would have to do.

He had never had a party either, but that didn't bother him so much. It wasn't as if he had anyone to invite. Dudley and his gang had prevented him from making any friends at school, and he considered it a blessing in disguise that the other members of the family, most notably Aunt Marge, cared so little for him that he never received so much as a card, let alone a visit, from any of them on his birthday.

He did get presents, sometimes—if the Dursley's managed not to forget about the significance of the day altogether—but they were never really anything to look forward to. While Dudley got things like bicycles and video games, he got a 50-pence piece Uncle Vernon dug out of his back pocket at supper, or a packet of paperclips his Aunt had bought for 50% off. There was never more than one per year, and none of them were much different than if he hadn't gotten anything at all. In fact, the best birthday he could remember was two years back, when the date was brought up by Dudley at breakfast. Uncle Vernon hadn't had any change on him to toss over, but Aunt Petunia had instead allowed him to eat the last couple strips of bacon rather than Dudley. The look on his cousins face alone was better than any gift he'd ever recieved.

Somehow, he doesn't expect today to be better. He'd stopped hoping that something would change years ago. His birthday has quickly become a non-event, just another day. He supposes it must have been different, before, when his parents were still alive. _One_. It had to have been his best birthday ever, that very first one, the only one he got to share with them. He likes to think that his mum made a cake, and his dad helped him blow out the lone candle. And there were presents, too. More toys than he had ever gotten in his entire time with the Dursleys. Maybe there was even a party, he doesn't know. One lousy birthday with his parents and he can't even remember it. But he imagines it the best he can. It's all he's got.

He wishes he knew more about them. They are a taboo subject in the Dursley house, his parents. The one time he brought it up with his Aunt, she snapped at him not to ask questions. He doesn't even know what they looked like. There are no photographs of them in the house, not even in the photo albums by the fireplace, which he managed to sneek a look at once. It's as if they never existed. His mum is his Aunt's sister, so he imagines they'd look at least a bit alike, though. His Aunt Petunia was the sort of woman who might have been very pretty, once, but who had aged too quickly, probably from scowling so much that the wrinkles multiplied rapidly upon her bony face until all signs of youthfulness were gone. His mother, on the other hand, had a gentler face, and a wide smile, or so he imagines. He knows her eyes were green, just like his, instead of the unforgiving deep brown of Aunt Petunia's. And he looks just like his father, otherwise. This he knows thanks to none other than Aunt Marge, who, unlike his aunt and uncle, _loved_ discussing Harry's parents, for the specific purpose of criticizing them. As much as her comments infuriated him, he was also, in a bizarre sort of way, grateful for them. Her snide remarks provided him with he only information he had on Lily and James Potter. Plus, the fact that Aunt Marge clearly despised the both of him filled him with a sort of pride for his parents. The types of people whom his relatives turned their noses up at were more often than not precisely the types of people worth getting to know.

He thinks about them, imagining them and that one birthday they shared, until Aunt Petunia calls him in for dinner. There is a present waiting for him at his place at the table. He is shocked to see it's even wrapped, or rather, stuck in a gift bag. They've really gone all out this year. His Uncle doesn't even glance up from his conversation with Dudley as he takes his seat, so he knows things haven't completely turned upside down. He's barely gotten his bottom in the chair before Aunt Petunia barks at him to "open it already so I have someplace to put down the pies." He snatches it off the table and reaches inside. It is a jumper, four sizes too big for him. An old one of Dudley's that his cousin must have outgrown. It is a rather horrible yellow, with brown edging. He tries, and surely fails, at looking pleased, but he mutters out his thanks just the same, so they can't accuse him of being ungrateful. No one says anything, but Aunt Petunia brings over the pies, and he eats his quietly as she drawls on about the neighbors, silently wondering what his birthday would have been like if it weren't for the car crash that landed him here in the first place.

Who knows, maybe next year will be better.

He doubts it, but maybe.

* * *

They are still up when the clock above the mantel strikes twelve. Ginny clinks her glass against his, grinning up at him. "Thirty-five. You're getting old, Harry."

"Yeah, I think I did feel a gray hair sprout up at the stroke of midnight," he jokes, taking a sip from his glass. Truthfully, he welcomes the thought of growing old. Who would have thought he'd live to see even thirty-five? Yes, growing old sounds lovely, in his opinion.

Ginny chuckles. "We should get to bed soon," she says drowsily, "You've got your party later."

He nods, setting down his now empty champagne flute next to hers. A party, at the burrow, for him, with a cake baked specially by Molly, and a small pile of cards and presents, despite him insisting that no one need worry about bringing gifts. Though it is a cliche, the best part of it all will be the family coming together. He wonders what his childhood self would think, if he had been able to see the life he would have in the future. If he had known, back then, that one day he would have a tangible family, rather than just an imagined one. It is a rather nice feeling, to be loved.

"Happy birthday," Ginny whispers to him, leaning in for a kiss.

A happy birthday, indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** ...I'm back. Life got in the last way this past year and unfortunately fan-fiction had to take a backseat. That said I am back to writing and I hope to get several more updates in soon!

I know Cursed Child can be a pretty divisive topic in this fandom, and I myself certainly have my hesitations, but how _awesome_ do our Granger-Weasley family look in this morning's portraits?! I definitely had a bit of an excitement rush seeing them (and I'm not even going to be able to see the play!).

Anyways, the majority of this one-shot has been sitting on my laptop for the better part of a year and I felt it was about time to finish it off and get it out there.

I came up with the idea during my re-read of Chamber of Secrets, where I headcanoned that when Ron came home for the summer and his parents finally found out about his wand Molly was _furious_ because how could you not tell us and put yourself in danger for a _year_ by using a broken wand when you _know_ how detrimental those can be Ronald Weasley! And Ron says quietly that it was his fault because it happened when he stole the car and he didn't want to disappoint them any more than he already had or make them have to spend money he knew they didn't have. And Molly goes _off_ (practically in tears because what happened with Ginny is still so fresh) because how can he think that any of that stuff matters more than his _safety_ and _never_ do that again Ron. And it ends with her giving him a massive hug and whispering that she's just glad he's all right.

Annnnnd I ended up not writing _that_ but writing this piece about him getting Charlie's wand in the first place. Enjoy!

* * *

"Ooooh just let me grab the camera before you open it!" said his mum excitedly,

"Why?" Ron groaned dramatically, who was already sliding his finger under the envelope's seal.

"Because this is a big moment, Ronnie! Your first Hogwarts letter! You can wait one minute, I'll be right back…"

Fred and George smirked as she scurried out of the room, already having torn open their own letters. As soon as she was out of sight Fred whispered, "It's such a big moment because she was afraid you wouldn't make it in. _We_ never had to get our pictures taken with our letters, did we George?"

"Of course not. But it was all very expected with us," George replied seriously, "She only bothers with pictures if it's a real shocker."

Ron scowled at the both of them, trying very hard to resist tearing into the letter. He had been waiting for ages, ever since Bill went, and now here it was. He couldn't help but slide his finger under the purple seal, not enough to break it completely, but just enough to tide him over…

"What's gotten into _you_ , Perce?" George asked, looking over at him. Percy was holding out his letter in one hand and staring at something in his other hand, with a look of great pride on his face.

"Oh no…," Fred and George said simultaneously, clearly both coming to some sort of realization that eluded Ron.

"He hasn't—"

"He has."

"How ever will we live with the shame? Three in the family."

"What is it, what is it?" Ginny piped up, staring between them excitedly. Ron tried to get a better look at whatever was in Percy's hand and ended up nearly tipping over the marmalade.

"I've been made Prefect," said Percy finally, flashing them the object in his hand: a shiny badge. He attached it to the front of his t-shirt with a wide grin.

"Prefect!" A voice screeched from behind them. Their mum had returned, camera in hand. Ron sighed in relief. _Finally_. He made to hold up the letter so she could take a quick picture, but she wasn't focused on him at all. Rather, she had already scurried over to Percy, demanding that he smile as she snapped a couple shots of him with his new badge.

"Of course, there's no one better. You just wait until your father hears about this, he'll be so proud. Third in the family! All of our boys!" She wiped at her eyes furiously, "With Bill and Charlie, you know, we got them a small gift as a congratulations. Haven't you been saying you'd like an owl? Perhaps when we go to Diagon Alley…." And she rambled on.

Annoyance was creeping on. How long was he supposed to sit here and wait? He called "Mum" a couple of times in the hopes of gaining her attention, but she was too preoccupied over perfect Percy. "You might as well just open it, I want to see," Ginny said from his side, staring at the letter in his hands with great longing. Well at least _someone_ was interested in him, he thought bitterly. Sending one more glance at his mum, who was now locking Percy in a tight hug, he tore open the rest of the seal, pulling out his letter at last. He scanned it quickly. He had made it in. Term started on 1 September, yada yada. He tossed it over to Ginny, who had been reading it over his shoulder, and flipped to the more exciting page: his supply list.

It was quite substantial. There was a long list of books and another one of potions ingredients. Plus the uniform. He'd probably get all of that second-hand. He didn't mind though. There was one thing he _couldn't_ get second-hand, because it was unique to each wizard: his magic wand. What he had been looking forward to the most. It was going to be the first thing that was truly _his_. Everything else he had ever owned had been things his brothers no longer wanted: clothes they had grown out of, comic books they'd already read, toys they were tired of playing with. Even his pet wasn't really his, but someone Percy had grown bored with in favor of his new obsession with owls. His wand would be his very first new thing. He couldn't have been more excited.

"You opened it, Ron?" he heard his mum scold from behind him, but he was too happy to care. "I asked you to wait just _one_ minute…Well, hold it up like that then."

He even forgot to look grumpy as he did so. "When did you say we were going to Diagon Alley again, Mum?" He asked lightly.

"Oh yes, well, I'll probably just go on my own, dear. I don't think we need much, and it will be too busy to keep track of all of you. Where's your list now?" He handed it over. "Yes, actually, I think we have most of this already. The twins have outgrown Bill's first set of robes, so I think I can patch them up a bit for you. And we've got the books, they haven't changed since I first bought Fred and George's, not that I'm complaining. Really I'll just need to pick up some more parchment and quills, an extra set of robes for Fred, and Percy's owl…Yes, it'll be much simpler to make the run myself."

"But I've got to be there to get my wand!" Ron reminded her, a bit too loudly. From the corner of his eye he could see Fred and George exchanging glances. Percy was fingering his Prefect badge and deliberately not meeting his eye. His mum gave a little sigh and moved to sit down next to him. Only Ginny seemed to be just as confused as he was. The others all seemed to know something he didn't.

"Dear," his mother began, in a far too gentle voice, reaching to clasp his hands in her own... _Oh no_. "I know how much you want a new wand, but Charlie's just replaced his old one, and he offered to give it to you to use! Your father and I have discussed it," She faltered a little bit on her words and gave his hands a squeeze. "Wands are just too expensive right now, Ronnie."

"But...but Charlie's won't work!" Ron said stupidly, trying rather hard to process her words. Not getting his own wand? It _couldn't_ be. "The wand chooses the wizard. That's what Ollivander says! Charlie's wand didn't _choose_ me."

"Well it may not be the _most_ compatible, no. But you'll just be learning simple spells for the first year, it should work just fine for those."

"But that's not fair!" Ron retorted, yanking his hands away. "Everyone else got their own! Ginny will get her own next year!"

"We didn't have any to spare when they needed them, Ron," his mother said, sounding very tired. "And Charlie's wand is a perfectly good wand..."

"But I don't want _Charlie's_ wand, I want _my_ wand," Ron all but shouted. He stood up angrily, the elation of just moments before all but gone. He knew it wasn't really his mother's fault, but he couldn't help but glare at her. Why did they have to be so bloody poor? It was so unfair. "You're buying Percy an owl," he said stiffly. Then he turned on his heel and all but ran from the room to the staircase.

He sprinted his way to his bedroom on the top, slamming his door as loudly as possible when he reached it. He had to wipe a few stray tears away. He hated being a Weasley. All you got was horrible hair, and sunburn in the summers, and clothes that were too tight and too short. And he didn't have the brains of Percy or the humor of the twins' to pull it all off. He was going to be the laughing stock of Hogwarts.

His mother called him for lunch at half noon, but he refused to let his stomach betray him. He wasn't going to give up his anger at being denied the one thing he'd yearned for for _years_ , just for a couple of sandwiches. Going hungry meant everyone would know just how upset he was. Too upset to _eat_ , which, for him, was _very_ upset. Still, his stomach growled, and finishing off the bag of crisps he'd kept hidden in the bottom drawer of his desk did little to satisfy his growing appetite. Just as he was beginning to wonder how long it'd be until he was called for dinner, there was a knock on his door.

"It's me, let me in!"

 _Ginny_. He opened it to see her standing there with a stack of sandwiches wrapped in a napkin, and two bottles of pumpkin juice tucked under her arm. _Thank god for Ginny_. She always came through.

"Thanks Gin!" He exclaimed, beckoning her in and shutting the door behind her.

"Well if you're going to be sad you might as well be sad with food!" She declared, plopping herself on the floor and offering him the sandwiches and one of the pumpkin juices. "I'm sorry about your wand," she added, face falling.

He shrugged. "Yeah," was all he could say in response. He knew Ginny understood how he felt. She wanted a wand just as badly as he did, more even, considering how much she yammered on about spells and Hogwarts. The difference was that even though she had to wait a bit longer, she would actually _get_ one, in just a years time. Unless, perhaps, Bill, too, decided to trade in the old for the new. It was rough being the youngest. There was more time for people to outgrow things.

"Charlie's wand isn't too bad though," his sister said finally, trying to be cheerful again. "He told me once it was the finest wand there is for quick charmwork!"

"Why'd he get rid of it then?" Ron replied bitterly. She didn't have a response to that, her mouth twisting into a frown once more. "Sorry," he mumbled, feeling guilty for snapping at her.

Ginny twisted open her pumpkin juice and took a long swig. "It's going to be weird here without you, you know. Maybe if your wand stinks you'll have to come home!"

Ron took a bite of one of the sandwiches. Corned beef. Why was it _always_ corned beef? He hated the stuff. "Gee, you're making me feel so much better, Ginny," he said sarcastically. But what if she was right? He pictured himself on his first day at Hogwarts. Fred and George had mentioned something about fighting a troll to get sorted. He already figured he wouldn't be that good at magic. What if he stood there, with his trunk and his school robes, waving Charlie's wand, and nothing happened? Instead of getting placed in a house he'd be dubbed too stupid to even attend, and placed on the first train back home, a laughing stock. Suddenly it was even harder to get the sandwich down.

"Sorry!" said Ginny quickly. "I didn't mean it like _that_. I'm just going to miss you, that's all." She finished the rest of her pumpkin juice in one gulp and stood up. "I better get back, Mum wanted me to help with the dishes, she's probably mad." With that, she dashed out of his room. He could hear her stomping all the way down the stairs.

He sighed. Maybe he should just stay here, after all. Here he had Ginny, at least when she wasn't being swept away by Mum for "girl time." Without the promise of a wand, his whole image of himself at Hogwarts seemed to be crumbling. He wouldn't have any friends. He'd be the worst at magic, probably, _especially_ with Charlie's wand. And what if he got sorted into _Slytherin_? Or even Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. He supposed the latter two wouldn't be _so_ bad, but he knew it'd be disappointing to his family. The Weasley's were all Gryffindors. If he got anything else, I'd be a humiliation, just another sign that he wasn't good enough. The longer he considered it, the worse the possibilities became. He was bound to be lousy and lonely and miserable at Hogwarts. That just settled it: he wasn't going to go.

Resolved to stay at the Burrow for the rest of forever, he spent the remainder of the afternoon playing with Scabbers and wondering vaguely how best to inform his parents of his decision. No doubt, they wouldn't be thrilled that he was putting a stop to his magical education before it'd even begun. But the idea was certainly sounding better and better to _him_.

Just as the short relief provided by the sandwiches was beginning to dwindle, and he began to once again long to be called for supper, there was a knock on his door.

"Ron?" a gentle voice called. His father.

Reluctantly, he dragged himself off his bed and swung the door open to reveal Arthur Weasley, still in his work robes and looking particularly frazzled. "I hear you got your Hogwarts letter?" He said. Ron shrugged, stepping aside so that his father could walk past him and shutting the door again in his wake.

The man sat down on his bed and patted the spot beside him, until Ron plopped down in it. "Your mum wanted me to speak with you—" his father began wearily.

"It's fine," Ron mumbled, taking a sudden interest in the frayed edge of his bedspread. "Nothing to talk about."

"Son, I know you're upset about your wand—"

"I'm not."

"Oh?"

"I won't need it, anyway."

"And why's that?"

"Because I'm not going."

There was a deep sigh and a long pause. It was difficult to resist looking up to gauge his father's reaction, but he kept his eye's resolutely on his quilt. After what seemed like ages, his father spoke. "Not going?" His voice was calm, but that didn't mean anything. His father was always calm. Ron nodded. He still didn't look up, but he could feel the older man's gaze. "That doesn't sound like the same boy who's been talking about Hogwarts nonstop all summer."

"I've changed my mind."

"Because of the wand?" Again, a shrug. "Ron—"

"Everyone but Ginny knew, that I wasn't getting my own," he said, a little too bitterly.

"Your brothers overheard me talking to your mum." Ron wiped furiously at his eyes. He _wasn't_ going to cry about this. "We were trying to figure out the right way to tell you. Son, it's not that we don't want you to have your own. It's just not in the budget right now. Not when we have a perfectly good spare."

Ron finally looked up. His father looked incredibly strained. A familiar wave of guilt washed over him. He knew how hard his father worked for them, and how upset he looked when he couldn't give one of his kids what they wanted. That's why he wasn't supposed to ask for things. He wasn't supposed to be a strain. "I'm sorry Dad," he whispered.

His father nudged him with a thin, long box. "Go on, take it."

It was a wand box. He opened it. Inside was a wand easily recognizable as Charlie's. The wood was marred with many scratches, and there was a decent chunk missing altogether from the handle. Still, it was a wand. He had never been handed one before, meant for _him_ alone. They could be dangerous for an untrained wizard to yield, especially when the said wizard was still subject to bouts of accidental magic. His mum kept all the wands in the house tightly monitored for that reason. Delicately, he took it out of its velvet lining and held it out before him.

"You can give it a wave," his father said with another nudge. He gave it one swoosh through the air. Short sparks flew off the tip and quickly faded.

"Working well! And yielded by a fine young wizard!" his father exclaimed, beaming at him. Ron flushed and dropped the wand back into its box, pushing it away from him as if it had burned him.

"I still can't go."

His father looked at him critically, and Ron again averted his eyes. He hated when his father did that, it was like he could see right through him. "I don't think this is just about the wand, son." Arthur said softly.

In a small voice, Ron confessed. "It's just…what if…what if I'm not cut out to be a wizard? What if I'm really terrible?" Then, even quieter, "What if no one likes me?"

Once again there was a pause that seemed to last far too long, though in reality it was probably just a few seconds. Then, "Did you see those sparks? A wand may be important, but it's only part of the equation. _You_ do the work. _You_ made those sparks happen. You're going to make a fine wizard. And you'll be learning right alongside everyone else. Everyone starts on the same page with magic. You'll catch on just fine. As for making friends, I wouldn't worry about that for a minute. You're the most likable kid I know."

Ron peered at him quizzically. "You really think so?"

"Why do you think Ginny's so sad you're leaving? I'll let you in on a secret: you're pretty fun to be around."

Out of the blue, Ron hugged him. "Thanks, Dad."

"So…Hogwarts?"

"I guess I can give it a try."

Arthur beamed. "Of course you can. So what do you say we go eat, huh? Your mum's waiting on us, we don't want to disappoint."

They stood up, and Arthur led the way out. "So tell me, what were you going to do without learning magic?"

"Get a muggle job," Ron said seriously. "I could be a fire putter-outter. They're so cool. How do they not get burnt?"

"Fire _fighter_ , Ron. And they wear special suits, but I'm still trying to figure out who those work without magic."

"Right. Or a police. Or one of those people who deliver mail right to your house, you know, because they don't have owls—"

His father chuckled. "I'm just happy to know that at least one of my children was paying attention when I told you about that." He gave Ron an affectionate pat on the back.

Ron grinned at him. Even if he had had to go to Hogwarts _wandless_ or wearing shreads instead of robes, he wouldn't trade being a Weasley for all the money in the world.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Wow. I'm back. Sorry for that year long hiatus. This is a little something I wrote based off of the tumblr prompt "It's okay to hurt and breakdown. You don't have to be strong all the time" requested for Harry x Ginny. Enjoy!

* * *

"It's okay to hurt, Harry! You don't have to be so bloody strong all the time!"

The words are hard, abrasive, hurled at him in anger after weeks of him acting completely, infuriatingly _composed_. Ginny waits, her fiery hair whipping across her face as she crosses her arms over her chest and dares him to answer her. She desperately wants him to scream back, to take the bait, to yell or to cry. Anything to let her know that he still cares, still _feels_. Anything to end the weird, silent standoff they've been in ever since returning home.

She wants—more than anything—for him to just _talk_ to her. Let her in. But all he does is stare back at her blankly. So she turns on her heels and is out the door, and it is all she can do to stumble through the yard before collapsing, hunching over by the shed and tearing her hands across her wet eyes to prevent them from spilling over.

A month has passed since the final battle. A month of press coverage and reparations and funerals. And he hasn't once lost it. Not _once_ let himself be vulnerable. Not to her. Instead, he holds her hand through the funerals, his grip never too tight. He cradles his godson Teddy with a gentleness that makes her heart break. He holds himself off to the side as her family clings to one another, busying himself with their next meal when her mum can't bring herself to cook. He kisses her reverently each morning and sneaks into her room to lie with her at night—but she still doesn't know where they stand. Not really. He doesn't tell her a thing, and she doesn't ask. She waits. And Ginny Weasley's gotten bloody tired of waiting.

If only being close to him was enough…but it's not. She had thought that it would be, last year as she thought desperately of him to keep herself going. It was all she had longed for—his very _nearness_ —all those nights as she lay in her four poster at Hogwarts and dreamt of him, praying that he was safe. Praying that he was _alive_. That maybe, someday, Voldemort would be defeated and things could go back to how they once were, when they had been together and everything had seemed easier due alone to that simple fact.

In some ways, they _have_ gone back. From the way that Harry kisses her, she's absolutely certain that they've gotten back together without the question having to be asked. And when he lies next to her, his skin brushing against hers, she can almost trick herself into forgetting just how much everything has changed. Even so, she can't ignore the hesitancy now present that was never there before; something too reserved, too careful, too still, that permeates every touch and every word between them. It is that something that leaves her feeling lonelier than ever.

There's so much she wants to say to him, but it's never seemed like the right time. He has been steady and gentle and caring, but it is a comfort that never goes deeper than the surface. He shies away from conversation about anything important, anything that would mean confronting all that has happened—that would make all of it finally seem real. But she's not sure how much longer she can go on pretending to be strong, and she's certain she can no longer sit by quietly as he does the same.

Or maybe she's just misreading it. Maybe he's just better at coping. For her, it's too much. Fred. Remus. Tonks. _Harry_. The weight of the past year is starting to suffocate her, so that it's hard to get through even a moment. She doesn't know how she made it this long, really. It was only a matter of time until the breakdown. Still, she finds herself trying to stop the tears even as they break free from her eyes and roll down her face. After all, Ginny's never been one for vulnerability. Neither has he. That's the whole problem, isn't it?

From a distance comes the sound of feet shuffling against grass, and she knows that it's him without having to look. Of course he would follow her out here. Reflexively, she moves to dry her eyes. Ridiculous as it is, she still doesn't want to let him see her fall apart. There's a soft thud as he lowers himself beside her and leans against the shed. She focuses on her fingernails in a fruitless effort to stop sniffling.

After a moment, Harry nudges her gently. "You know…it's okay to hurt. You don't have to be strong _all_ the time." He pauses, then softly adds, "Somebody really brilliant once told me that."

Ginny looks up to meet his eyes at last, and offers him a small smile in return for his efforts, still wiping at her face. "Brilliant, huh?"

"Yes, brilliant. Smart. Kind. Fierce…" He nudges her again, this time raising an eyebrow, "And _incredibly_ sexy."

Ginny chuckles, but it comes out as more of a choke through her tears. "Sexy too? She sounds too good to be true."

"The very best," Harry whispers, speaking with such a sincerity that it makes her heart drop right through her chest.

She reaches out to grasp his hand in her own, linking their fingers together and squeezing his tightly. "Thank you," she whispers back. She means "I love you," but she can't quite form the words. Not yet. It's too soon after her world fell apart. She's still trying to pick up all the broken pieces. There's no room for anything else.

Somehow, Harry seems to understand. He squeezes her hand back just as fiercely, and whatever string has been holding her together all this time snaps in an instant. It doesn't take longer than the moment that the first sob escapes for Harry to pull her closer, bringing her head down to his shoulder and running a steady hand through her hair, planting kisses on her scalp as she loses it completely.

"You died," she chokes out accusingly.

Out of everything Ginny could have said to explain her sudden breakdown, this seems to be the last thing Harry was expecting. The surprise, however, doesn't linger on his features. He simply murmurs, "It seemed like the only thing to do at the time," and pulls her even closer, a slight crack in his voice the only indication that he has been taken aback by her words.

"You didn't even say goodbye," Ginny continues, her own voice almost a whisper. And there it is—the thought that has been gnawing at her for weeks, keeping her up at night—out in the open at last.

All he says is, "It would have been too hard."

" _Too hard?"_ Ginny snaps back, pulling away from him as though burned. "Too hard was watching Hagrid carry out your body and thinking that I was going to have to bury it next to my brother! Too hard was hearing McGonagall scream and seeing Ron and Hermione seize up and Neville on fire and knowing that you'd sacrificed yourself without even having the decency to tell someone you were going to do it! To tell _me!_ I didn't even—" she stops, wiping frantically at her tears to try and compose herself enough to continue, "I didn't even get to tell you I loved you. You didn't even give me a moment to hold on to. _That_ was too hard."

There's a tear in Harry's eye now, but it's only the one. He's looking resolutely at the sky instead of at her. "Ginny," he starts, his voice infuriatingly steady, "I wouldn't have gone through with it if you had said that. Just hearing your voice it—that alone would have been enough to stop me. And I needed to do it! It was the only way. I need you to understand that."

And the scary part is, she does. She gets it. She bloody gets why her boyfriend (not really her boyfriend at the time, she supposes, but nevertheless, _hers_ ), would deliberately walk to his own death at the hands of the darkest wizard who's ever lived, and not tell a single soul that he was going to do it. It's the same reason he's done every crazy he's done. It's the same reason she loves him. He wanted to save them. That doesn't mean she isn't angry.

"I'm here now though, right? It's all in the past."

 _But it isn't!_ she wants to scream, _It's not!_ _You died!_ _How can you be so calm about that!_ She still sees him as he was in Hagrid's arms, limp and lifeless, every time she closes her eyes. She still can't stop thinking about a world without him. "Not for me," she says rigidly.

"Ginny…." He begins, but the patience in his voice, though perhaps a little strained, is enough to set her over the edge.

"Why the hell are you so okay, Harry? You _died_. You died and it's all I can see, all I can _think_ about... I'm going crazy and you, you're just fine, aren't you!"

She immediately regrets saying it. It's like a deep, dark secret, those words, and she hates herself for even thinking them, let alone _voicing_ them. She shouldn't begrudge her boyfriend for being well. That shouldn't be how things are.

But it's too late. It's Harry's turn to snap, and his voice at last has an edge as he says, "I'm not fine, Ginny! Of course I'm not fine!"

"Well you're doing a bloody good job at pretending!" Ginny says, nearly shouting now, tears flowing from the corners of eyes against her will, "Why won't you just—why won't you talk to me?" Her voice loses its bite as it fizzles out imploringly.

Harry, too, seems to deflate. His whole body sags and his breathing becomes heavy in a way that is excruciating and comforting all at once. The pause that follows seems to extend for edges. When at last he meets her eyes, Ginny feels a surge of love for him so strong that she wants to pull him toward her before he's even spoken a word. "I'm afraid, Ginny," he whispers truthfully. "I'm afraid that if I let myself fall apart, I'll never come back, like I'll—I'll go off the edge. How the hell do you move on from being 'The Chosen One'? What if it's something I can't come back from? I want to be able to enjoy the life I fought for. I deserve that." He says the last part sternly, as if trying to convince himself of its truth.

Gently, Ginny takes his hand again and scoots close enough to press her body against his, laying her head on his shoulder. "Wanting to be okay doesn't automatically make you so. You can't force yourself into being fine when you're not." She can feel him shaking against her. "I want to get through this with you, together. We can. I know it."

Harry's free hand reaches up to wipe at his face, where the tears are now steadily falling, but Ginny pulls it down. "It's okay," she says softly, "It's okay."

And then he's crying against her, and whispering his apologizes—for pushing her away, for holding too much in, for dying—and she's crying too. As he lists them all off, she strokes his hair and whispers to him her best words of comfort. From an outside perspective, she knows that they're more of a mess than ever. Two broken teenagers in the wake of a war. Still, Ginny finds that, for the first time since the battle, she actually believes that they might be okay.

After all, they made it home.


End file.
